


The Howling

by singingwithoutwords



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Post-Apocalypse, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 20:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singingwithoutwords/pseuds/singingwithoutwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All we are is fading away...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Howling

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song [The Howling](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0bqRn0rLq1c), by Within Temptation.

He used to be Prussia. He used to be great. He used to be feared, respected, almost a thing of legend.

His name wasn't Prussia anymore.

“They're coming, Commander!” The voice was human and frightened, as it damned well should be. These things, these monsters, they'd been tearing the countryside apart for years. The beasts decimated Germany, killed his brother, destroyed what they'd built together, and that was no small feat.

He stood, smiling grimly at the men and women clustered around him. The howling no longer shook them. Only the oldest in their camp could remember a time before mindless howls and shrieks filled the night air, echoing off the hills.

“Well, soldiers?” He asked, and a few of them echoed his grin. “What are the numbers?”

“A full pack, sir,” the only child among them said. He was small, shaggy blond, and his large amber eyes were closed. “They're coming fast, from the south.” The boy's voice was calm, though he had the most to fear right now.

“We've defeated packs before, Commander.” Another said. “We'll beat this one back, too.”

“Or die trying,” one of the women spoke up flatly. The last raid had cost her her children, and he knew from the naked fury in her eyes that she wasn't coming back from this fight.

“Let's go remind these beasts that we're still in charge,” he said. “Mount up.” Those who planned to fight obeyed, climbing onto the huge, ugly horses he'd begun breeding decades ago for battle. “Marc.”

The blond child opened his eyes, gaze too serious for his age. “Sun on your wings, Father,” he said gravely.

“Sun on your wings,” he responded, raising his sword in salute. “Be safe. Troops, form up- here they come!”

Marc and the others stayed behind as he and those mounted moved forward. Black nightmares came rolling over the hills to meet them, and a cry went up from the vanguard as the two lines clashed.

He had once been Prussia, but Prussia was gone. White hair flying, red eyes gleaming with battle lust and hatred, Old Germany, the Father, brought his sword down on the nearest target.

He hoped it would start to rain. Then he wouldn't have to explain the tears running down his cheeks.

* * *

  
The moon was red, and he knew what that meant.

There was no camp. Canada never met them near a camp. His people were perfectly capable of defending themselves, but he'd rather not take chances.

The snow was deep, but he left no traces to be followed. No, Canada was up a tree, the best place from which to spy on the beasts and arrange an ambush.

The first beast ambled by below, huge and shaggy and white. Ordinary weapons were useless against them- he'd had to lose too many men figuring that out. He fought alone.

Or, mostly.

Canada tipped his head back with a throaty howl before dropping like a stone onto the beast's back. His knife was long and sharp, made to slice through layers of blubber and thick skin, and it made short work of the hide in front of him, slightly longer work of severing the spine.

A roar sounded to his left, and Canada shoved himself free of the toppling monster, rolling in the snow and coming up on his feet.

Kumajirou, fur dyed in wide red designs, broke through the underbrush, lumbering by. Canada grabbed for the reins, yanking himself up and astride the bear and jamming his knife into its sheath in one smooth motion, drawing his second weapon and opening fire.

The bullets were made of bone. Canada didn't know how they were made, but the tiny white projectiles were powerful little things, and they tore through the things like knives through warmed butter.

Four of them dead, blood staining the snow black, and more were coming. Canada dropped the reins, trusting his legs and Kumajirou to keep him in place, and took the gun in both hands, waiting.

He was not going to die tonight.

* * *

  
The ocean below boiled with foam. It wasn't heat making the water churn- they'd learned that long ago. The roiling and eddies were the result of countless smooth bodies swimming around, under, knotting and coiling and twisting as if they belonged to a mindless hive.

The cliffs weren't safe. They should have been, but they weren't. The things could leap so high they could well be said to fly.

Britannia – he had once been England, but those days were gone – stood impassively less than a meter from the edge, as though daring them. Daring the bastards to try for him. Let them rise, and he'd sink them again, however many he had to until they were gone.

Sealand stood at his side. He dared nothing, simply stood and stared. His eyes were dull, gazing out beyond what men could see to the realm of pagan witches and Gods.

“It's time.”

Britannia nodded, not speaking. He knew as well as Sealand what that meant.

Behind him, the only force in their lands capable of still fighting stirred. Lithe warrior Sidhe, armored from pointed eartip to toe, sat astride horses, unicorns, giant hounds, and more. Unarmored but far from unarmed Fae clustered around them. Majestic gryphons took wing, soaring into the sky. So few of them left now.

“Are you ready?”

Britannia nodded. Let the bastards come. Scotland was sunk, Ireland and Wales decimated, but Britannia would stand. Together, nothing could make them fall.

_Guard me, brothers._  He prayed as the surface far below them started to calm. They were coming.

The first great beast leapt into sight, caught by a gryphon. The scaled body writhed, and Britannia swung his sword, slicing it open.

Sealand stepped back, eyes still vacant, and mounted his horse. His guard of Sidhe closed around him, and Britannia gave himself over to battle.

* * *

  
The village, like so many others, was empty and cold.

Russia didn't know how long or how far he'd walked. It was a very long way, several days at least, but he couldn't say for sure exactly how many. It didn't matter to him.

The village was devoid of life, empty even of bodies. The shadows had swallowed them up, taken them like all the people before. The only sound was snow under his boots and the harsh sound of his own breathing as he trudged down the deserted street.

He felt empty. Hollow. Cold. And very, very alone.

A shadow fell against him, too light to be one of the nightmare ones. “There's no one on the farms, either.”

The voice was a hard one, frigid, emotionless. It belonged to a wraith, a touchless spirit without a soul.

“We came too late,” General Winter continued as they walked, the snow swirling about their feet. “We should return to the city.”

Russia shook his head, staring hard at the horizon. “They have to be somewhere.”

“They're dead.”

“Even dead is somewhere.”

He refused to accept what Winter was trying to tell him, what some small, sane part of him knew. All his children couldn't be gone. Somewhere, in some tiny village ahead, some isolated farm, some small haven, someone still lived. He could feel it. He knew it. And he clung to it, not caring if it was only an illusion.

“We're almost there,” Winter said after a long silence, once they were far past the village.

“I know,” Russia answered. He could already see the forest. He knew what the trees were hiding. “Will it snow tonight?”

“No- it's not time for the next snow.”

“Good. I like looking at the stars.”

* * *

  
Everything hurt. Their every muscle ached, their body trembled with exhaustion. Their armor was light leather, but felt as though it were made of forged iron. Their eyes were clouded with fatigue. They wanted nothing so much as to rest.

“It's dawn,” they noted, their lips finding a tired smile to display. “We lived another night.”

No one answered. They were alone. They spoke only to themselves- the ones they might have spoken to were gone, lost in the chaos and the shadows. If the ones they loved still lived, they lived far away, in a place they could no longer reach.

“We should sleep,” they said. Part of them rebelled against the notion even as they yawned hugely, retreating into the tiny chapel.

Holy ground. They wondered idly if the others had discovered the secret, if anyone else had learned in time that the demons were repelled by holy ground. Crosses and holy water were useless, but holy ground was safe.

They shed their armor, storing their bow and arrows neatly, and collapsed onto their cot. Daylight and holy ground would guard them while they slept, and then night would come and it would be time to hunt again.

They couldn't really remember before, when there was no need to hunt, when the streets had been full of people and shadows hadn't been terrifying. When the wind carried songs and crowds and joyful shouts, not the endless wailing of heartbreak and nightmares. They couldn't remember it, but they longed for it, that time when they had been two men, in two separate bodies. When Italy had been North and South, and they had been happy.

“Sleep well,” they murmured as they fell into dreams. Not only to themselves, but to those they had lost, those they knew were gone and those they could still hope to be reunited with.

The sun rose majestically over the ruins of Rome, and Italy slept, waiting for the time to kill.

**Author's Note:**

> This was never meant to be more than just the one part, but I keep coming back to it, dwelling on it, wanting to add to it. Give it a real plot and bring it to a satisfying conclusion. So screw it, that's what I'm going to do.


End file.
